I'll Be Home for Christmas
by justvisiting80
Summary: BELLARKE one-shot, written purely as a Christmas gift for my darling beta MarinaBlack1. She suggested I share it with others. **NO LIE, THIS IS JUST LEMONY HOLIDAY BELLARKE.** (Okay, well also with a side of MURPHAMY bromance.) Rate M for the very, very obvious reason that this may be considered NSFalotofstuff.


A/N: This is quite honestly 1,000% dedicated to you, **MarinaBlack1**. I would NEVER have been able to even consider writing this a year ago.

* * *

_I really should have let Clarke come with us,_ Bellamy thought ruefully as he gritted his teeth against the pain in his shoulder. There was nothing good about being stuck in the middle of a snowstorm, deep in the woods, alone and wounded after a boar attack. _Okay – maybe not technically alone,_ he admitted as Murphy stomped back into sight.

"There's a straight shot to the drop-ship just over that ridge," the younger man explained, pointing. This heavy snow had made the forest foreign again, and Bellamy found himself grateful for Murphy's presence. It would be easy to panic: he was certain he had a dislocated shoulder, the area around him was already stained with the disturbingly rich crimson of his blood from where the boar's tusk had caught him, and his jacket sleeve was a ragged, sodden mess. Beyond all that, winter days on Earth were far too short. Really, this could have been so much worse.

"Tell me again why you wanted to go hunting today?" Murphy grunted as he dragged Bellamy's good arm over his shoulder and the men started up the hill.

"I already told you," Bellamy muttered.

"Humor me," Murphy insisted. A part of Bellamy realized this was Murphy's attempt at keeping him conscious, and he smiled inwardly. Yes, Murphy was an asshole most of the time – but he was an oddly loyal asshole, worth keeping around.

"It's Christmas," Bellamy started, thinking back to the story. Speech wasn't easy; each sentence came as a short burst between waves of pain. "I told Clarke about Christmas. We thought it would be… a good idea. A celebration… since we finally got our people back."

"Hell of a party so far," Murphy said, picking a careful path down the other side of the snowy bank. He didn't need a twisted ankle right now, on top of all their other problems.

"Not the celebration, the gift!" Bellamy huffed, trying to clarify why they were out here at all. He sounded annoyed, which Murphy took as a good sign.

"Shit, we have to give each other _gifts_?" Murphy complained. "I hate Christmas already."

"Fuck off, Murphy. A gift for Clarke."

"It's okay - I didn't get you anything either, big guy." That pulled a small chuckle from Bellamy. "Well… we're here."

The drop-ship looked different, and Murphy wrinkled his brow trying to understand what was wrong. Finally he realized – it didn't look as cold as usual.

Whenever they returned to their former camp – which was frequently enough these days – it always seemed a bit sad. Abandoned. Desperate for friendship and laughter and the heat of one hundred young bodies in search of adventure. Murphy felt an odd sympathy for the hunk of metal and the charred earth on which it sat.

And yet now it seemed transformed by Clarke and Bellamy, and Murphy found himself choking up a bit. Green garlands of pine around the entrance, a few well-positioned holly branches offering glimpses of red, a thick blanket of snow erasing the area's battles scars… it seemed almost warm, inviting. He shook his head quickly and snapped at Bellamy to hurry, since they weren't getting any younger.

The interior was just as transformed. Raven and Wick must have been in on this conspiracy, because a string of small lights now ran along the perimeter of the ceiling. Bellamy smiled weakly and pushed free of Murphy, pressing a switch in an exposed electrical panel to turn them on.

"Raven wired them to alternate like that," he said, and even though the explanation was meant to be dismissive, both men sank into silence for a minute, each respectfully pretending not to notice the other's delight at Raven's handiwork.

Bellamy suddenly cleared his throat. "I think I need to sit down," he confessed as he lurched sideways; Murphy cursed and caught him just in time, dragging him toward the pile of blankets that had served as a makeshift bed for various visitors.

"We have to stop the bleeding," he warned Bellamy, anxious over the ashen coloring in the usually-tan leader's cheeks. He found material to fashion a rough bandage, applying as much pressure as he dared, gritting his teeth against Bellamy's groans of pain. That dislocated shoulder was not helping the situation.

"Okay. I need to get Clarke," Murphy finally admitted. Bellamy frowned and complained that it was a bad idea, it was getting dark, it was too cold… But Murphy just stared him into silence.

"You done?" He passed Bellamy's gun back to him. "Shoot whatever comes through that door. Unless it's me, obviously."

* * *

Bellamy slept fitfully, victim to his own pain but also to his thoughts. Which were, somehow, exclusively of Clarke. Clarke's body pressed into his that day at the gate, soft and warm. Clarke's smile, the one she had seemed to lose for a while, but had recently started to remember. Clarke's serious blue eyes and the way they changed shape just slightly when she laughed. Clarke's hair, that fucking angel-gold hair shining at him like some damn beacon wherever she went, reminding him of her presence even when they were at opposite ends of the camp...

"Bellamy? Oh my god, Bellamy!" ...Clarke's voice, low and rough as sex even when she was just checking in on him…

"Clarke. Is he going to be okay?" Murphy's voice…

… _Murphy's_ voice?

"What?" Bellamy tried to open his eyes but they refused the command. He frowned until he felt a firm, comforting touch on his brow. Clarke's fingers were icy cold but he liked it. When she moved her hand to his far cheek, her wrist hovered just above his mouth for a moment. He shifted a bit and kissed the thin skin over her pulse. There was a tiny intake of air, a curl of fingers through the hair at his temple. Bellamy smiled and tried to open his eyes again.

"Hey, you," she whispered when he finally focused on her face. "A wild boar? Bellamy." Even though the tone chastised, he caught the relief in her features.

"Dislocated shoulder," he mumbled.

"And blood loss," she added, "But let's deal with the shoulder first." She turned and called for Murphy, ordering him to hold Bellamy steady. It was strange to be the one totally dependent on others, and Bellamy grimaced as Murphy pinned him down. If it weren't Clarke, this would be a completely untenable situation. But there was nobody he trusted with his life the way he trusted Clarke, not even Octavia. That confession felt slightly blasphemous.

"This shouldn't hurt… any more than it already does," Clarke assured him as she bent his elbow, slowly twisting his arm out and then up until suddenly, and without warning, everything slid back into place and he gasped. He flexed his fingers and pulled his arm against his chest gingerly.

"Murphy. Murphy?" The younger man refused to move. Bellamy looked at Clarke for assistance – but she was in a rare, teasing mood today, and would not help. "Dammit Murphy, it's done. Get off me."

"Actually, that was the easy part. Sit tight, Murphy. I still need to stitch him up," Clarke interjected. Bellamy and Murphy both stared at her, but she was all business, opening her backpack to pull out medical supplies.

* * *

When Bellamy woke again, the drop-ship felt slightly emptier. He tried to stay calm.

"Clarke?"

"I'm here. I sent Murphy home, by the way. His pacing was getting to me." She crawled across the floor toward her patient, and when he reached out for her, laced her fingers into his. "He knows, doesn't he?"

"I think so," Bellamy admitted. "But I trust him, believe it or not." Clarke bent over him, tempting but not actually granting the kiss she knew he wanted. He growled in frustration. "Your bedside manner, doctor…"

Clarke laughed and helped him sit up on the blankets, taking a quick moment to check his arm. When she was satisfied with his current condition, Clarke straddled Bellamy and slipped her arms around his waist, tucking her face into his chest.

"What were you thinking though, really?" She finally allowed the worry to creep into her tone; Bellamy sighed and, with his good arm, pulled her closer.

"I was thinking you deserved a little happiness," he whispered against her temple. "Have I ruined Christmas?"

"I didn't actually have any expectations… so not really. But you thought running around the woods, getting yourself injured, was the way to make me happy?" Clarke pulled back to gaze up at him, a smile playing at the edges of her mouth. "You know exactly how to make me happy, Bellamy, and that's not it."

He tried not to grin. He tried really hard, and almost succeeded - but a tiny smirk escaped and Clarke saw it. She grabbed the hem of his shirt, letting her fingers trail over the taut muscles along his back as she lifted the fabric, easing his tender arm free before yanking the dark cotton material over his head.

"I'm going to need your help," Bellamy admitted, struggling with her coat. "This arm…" She shifted a bit, wrapping her legs around his waist and settling more fully into his lap before ridding herself of her jacket and shirt. Bellamy grinned fully now, bending to kiss the space between her breasts, his fingers running lightly over the front of her bra. Clarke's breasts were un-fucking-believable: round and soft, yes, but also sensitive and responsive in a way that drove him mad. He pulled the straps off her shoulders to free them, and tried not to lose it completely when she moaned at the sensation of his tongue tracing her nipple. In the same way her low sultry voice could make him think insanely dirty thoughts even when they were standing around arguing with Abby, her little noises – a moan here and there, a gasp – were physical triggers for him. He forgot his injury for a moment, raw desire taking over as he pushed her up out of his lap, setting her on a tall supply box nearby. Bellamy grunted and sat back down heavily as the pain caught up to him, and doubt flickered across Clarke's face.

"Are you okay?"

He didn't answer; he just pulled himself up and into the V of her thighs, reaching for the button of her fly. He began dragging her pants down over her hips and Clarke shifted on the box to help him, her face already warming in anticipation. When he had stripped her bare Bellamy pressed a teasing kiss against the inside of her thigh; she moaned again and fell back, fingers raking through her own hair as his mouth sought out the soft heat at the center of her. She bit her lips tightly together, her scalp tingling with each fresh pass of his tongue. Bellamy had not intended to spend so long tasting Clarke; the hard metal of the drop-ship floor was murder on the knees, they both knew that all too well by now. But she kept… sighing. And the way she called his name, like reaching into some ancient part of his brain and stroking from there all the way down his spine… what fool would give up on that? When her thighs began to quiver uncontrollably though, he stood and entered her in one movement.

_Fuuuck…_

Bellamy was far too good at sex. Every time he fucked her, Clarke was overwhelmed by the sensation of his cock filling her _just so damn perfectly_. Tonight the feeling as he shifted her hips in that way of his, adjusting them both so he pressed into her more fully with each stroke, almost brought her to climax immediately. She bit the soft flesh of her own palm, whimpering when his broad hand splayed over the expanse of skin stretching between her hipbones. His thumb wandered down, toying with her, stroking her lightly until her brain gave up, her body gave up, and she screamed his name through a bright wave of intense pleasure that washed over her. Instead of stopping as she came off that incredible high though, Bellamy kept going, sustaining her bliss well past the limits of normal human capacity. Clarke writhed on the lid of the box, sure she had nothing left to give, until without warning a second orgasm began deep within her and rolled out, heavier and longer than the last, consuming her soul. Bellamy shuddered and emptied himself inside her with a quiet groan before leaning forward, resting his forehead on her stomach as he tried to catch his breath.

It took them both a few minutes to recover.

"Dammit Bellamy, and I didn't get you _anything_ for Christmas," Clarke finally joked with a weak laugh. Her blood was still pounding through her body.

"Well, I think you know what I want," Bellamy offered, his voice muffled against her bare white flesh. She pushed herself up on her elbows, gazing at the mop of beautiful dark curls above his deep, gentle dark eyes, adoring the way his brows knit together as he begged her silently. She bit at her lower lip to hide her smile, and nodded. She exhaled once, a steadying breath, and blinked back the tears.

"You idiot, you already know I love you." He sighed happily and buried his face in her abdomen once more.

"Say it again, anyway." She laughed in joy.

"I love you, Bellamy Blake."

* * *

_****Running off to bury my extremely bright red face in absolute terror at the moment... BRB.****_


End file.
